Juliet McKenna - The Swordsman's Oath

“You’re looking very cheerful, Esquire D’Alsennin.”

Temar looked up to see he had nearly walked into a thin man with a shock of gray hair swept back from a hatchet-thin face. Green eyes, pale as a cat’s, stared at him, unblinking.

“Messire Den Fellaemion.” Temar made a quick reverence and wiped his palm on his breeches before offering it.

“How goes the loading?” Den Fellaemion acknowledged Temar’s courtesy with a brief handshake.

“Very well, Messire, we should have all the dried goods aboard by the end of the day and almost all the accommodation problems have been resolved.”

“Good,” the lean man nodded approvingly. “Do you have a current lading list for my clerks?”

“You’ll have it by sunset,” Temar promised, hesitating a moment then taking out his note-tablet again to add it to his list of things to do. Better look like a child learning letters in a dame-school, he felt, than risk forgetting.

A faint smile flickered across the nobleman’s pallid lips. “Take some refreshment with me, D’Alsennin.”

“Gladly.” It may have sounded more like a command than an invitation but Temar was too thirsty to worry about that.

Den Fellaemion looked around the quayside and signalled to a lackey with a wicker basket slung over one shoulder. “Let’s find a quiet corner.”

That was an easier task than it would have been before the noon chime, but the dock was all but deserted now as the toiling throng pressed into the taverns and clamored for a meal. Temar led the way to a ledge cut into a rocky outcrop where he’d seen women mending crab traps. He took the wineskin offered and quenched his considerable thirst gratefully.

“Ah, excellent.” Den Fellaemion opened the basket and took out fresh bread, spiced chicken, dry-cured ham and a yellow cheese wrapped in butter muslin. He passed Temar a dish with its lid tied and sealed. “See what’s in that, will you?”

It proved to be a medley of fruits in sweet wine, and Temar’s eyes brightened.

“Den Rannion’s lady still seems convinced I need feeding up,” observed Den Fellaemion in an amused tone. “I think there’s enough for two here; do help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Temar pulled his knife from his belt and cut himself a generous slice of the crumbly cheese.

“There’s something I need to mention to you.” The older man leaned back and closed his eyes as he enjoyed a gleam of spring sunshine that picked out the subtle brocade in his severe gray clothing.

Temar hurriedly ran through his recent duties in his mind but was unable to find any immediate cause for concern. “Yes?” Perhaps the Messire had some new responsibility for him.

“With your House providing four ships, provisioning several more besides and many of your tenants signing on for the colony, you are suddenly one of the major sponsors of our expedition, did you realize this?”

“My grandfather is the Head of our House; he deserves that honor.” Temar wondered what Den Fellaemion meant.

“Your grandfather is not here. You are.” The green eyes opened and fixed Temar with a piercing stare. “Many people will be looking to you as their patron, both before we sail and once we settle across the ocean. You will have a significant client base, if you choose to exploit it. What are your intentions in that area?”

Temar spread his hands uncertainly. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“It is time that you did,” said Den Fellaemion crisply. “If you are intending to live off the backs of your tenants in the style of such Houses as Nemith, I think our venture can do without you, despite the resources you offer. If, however, you intend to take a full part in leading the colony, shouldering your obligations and responsibilities, then I can see you could even hope to become a valued deputy to Den Rannion and myself. There are precious few of the noble class involved in this expedition and since the commonalty will look to us, as they are used to doing, how we conduct ourselves will have a major impact on the success or otherwise of the colony.”

Temar abruptly snapped his mouth shut. “D’Alsennin has always been a House most conscious of its duties to its tenants and the interests of the Empire,” he said stiffly.

Den Fellaemion regarded him, unsmiling. “Then would you care to explain why you have been sampling the favors of nearly every willing maiden who has crossed your path since you arrived here? There are many outmoded traditions that I intend to leave behind on this dockside and the right of a Sieur or his designate to make free with the female tenantry is certainly one of them.”

Taken completely unawares, Temar said the first thing that came into his head. “My grandfather wishes me to marry—”

“I do not recommend choosing a wife by trying her paces between the sheets; you test horses before purchase, not women, if you want peace at your hearth side anyway.” Den Fellaemion’s sudden smile wiped away his stern expression. “Keep your breeches laced, Temar. We are a small community and I don’t want you raising expectations or outrage by mistaking a lass’s meaning.”

Temar blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course, Messire, I hadn’t been thinking—”

“No harm done.” Den Fellaemion stood suddenly and waved to someone on the far side of the harbor. “Guinalle; come and join us!”

Temar looked around to see a young woman wrapped in a blue-gray cloak picking her way carefully across the cobbles slick with spray. She was of less than common height but neatly made with an open, heart-shaped face.

“Messire, Esquire,” she greeted them each in turn before seating herself composedly on a crab trap.

“Do have something to eat.” Den Fellaemion wiped his knife on a scrap of muslin and sheathed it with a decisive gesture. “I have much to do, Guinalle; I’ll see you at seventh chime, at the colony warehouse.”

“As you wish.” The girl took some bread and felt under her cloak for her own knife.

“Let me.” Temar cut her a slice. “Cheese, ham or chicken?”

“Cheese, thank you.”

“The ham’s very good.” Temar’s knife hovered over it. “Let me cut you some.”

“Not today, thank you.” Guinalle’s tone was polite but firm. “Perhaps another time.”

She looked up to see Temar’s puzzled frown. “At the dark of both moons, I make due observance to Ostrin.”

“You’re a priestess?” Temar couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be sworn to the god of blood-letting than this mild-faced female.

“An acolyte, of Larasion, but I observe the courtesies to all the gods.” Guinalle’s self-possession did not waver and a glint of gold sparked in her warm brown eyes.

Since Temar could not think of any response to that, they ate in silence for a little while, Temar looking past Guinalle to the harbor wall and the open seas beyond. It made sense to have some priests and acolytes along, he supposed; seeking divine favor could certainly do no harm. He looked at Guinalle’s modest cloak and her long nut-brown hair, unadorned with any clasp or jewel. The girl was probably one of the foundlings or orphans taken in by a large shrine and educated by them; without kin, she’d have no ties to this side of the ocean. He smiled at her. She was a tempting armful, no question.

“If you need any help, any advice, any introductions, don’t hesitate to ask.” He moved a little closer. “Do you have a lodging organized?”

“Thank you, but I’m sure my uncle will see to everything.”

Temar’s gaze followed her gesture and saw Den Fellaemion’s narrow back, an arm pointing emphatically to something in a sack.

“The Messire is your uncle?”

“His late wife was my father’s sister.” Guinalle untied her cloak to replace her knife, its plain sheath on a girdle of gold chain, complete with jewelled pomander, silver mesh purse, several keys and a chased silver note case. Her dove-gray dress, though plainly styled, was of unimpeachable cloth.